


Comfort Food

by FrontButts



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hannibal is dead, S4 AU, Sad, dark!Will, season four, sorry lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-13 23:17:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7142225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrontButts/pseuds/FrontButts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been nearly a year since Will and Hannibal went over the cliff together - and nearly a year since Hannibal's death- and Will is still struggling to cope with the loss. In a desperate effort to calm his mind he turns to markedly unorthodox coping methods- like kidnapping Bedelia du Maurier and eating her leg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort Food

They pick up Will after only twenty minutes, finding him struggling in the water with a blood trail ten yards long flowing from his cheek. When the boat team pulls him out of the water he is beginning to experience hypothermia and is slipping in and out of delirium. He shakes like a leaf, gripping the Coast Guard officer's hand with an iron fist and gazing around at the rescue team with half-lidded eyes, a savage, wounded wraith. He refuses food and medical attention, shrugging away from a security blanket and refusing to speak to anyone on the boat. The EMT who finally manages to get him laid down with an oxygen mask is the only one to hear him talk- later she would report that he was saying, "I lost him. I lost him. I lost him."

 

It takes Will a full six months, two in the hospital and four in outpatient treatment, to recover from his injuries- and even then, there is a massive, puckered line drawn across his cheekbone down to his lip where the Dragon tore him open. He walks with a slight limp now, too, and the impact on the water shattered one of his little fingers, leaving it stiff and painful. Despite these cruel reminders of the events of that night, which Will claims to barely remember, he is hailed as a hero- the man who felled Hannibal Lecter and Francis Dolarhyde in one blow. The media takes his story and runs with it, and for a long time after his hospital stay Will is still known as the fallen angel of the FBI, vindicated and triumphant after his epic battle with the forces of evil. The only thing that gets greater coverage than the Will Graham story is the retrieval of Hannibal's body, two days after Will's rescue. Will never sees it; no one asks him to.

Will and Molly separate once he is out of the hospital. There's no point to their relationship anymore- Will barely makes eye contact with her through the entire divorce process, and she takes full custody of her son without Will batting an eye. He moves back to his old home in Wolf Trap, Virginia, and even Jack has the good sense to wait another week after the divorce is finalized- a full seven months after the fateful fall- before contacting Will again.

"Hey," Jack says when Will picks up the phone. "I don't really know how you're feeling right now, and I know you don't want to tell me. But I just wanted to call and check up on you. You know. Just see how you're faring. Still hanging in there?"

When Will speaks his voice is hoarse; he hasn't said anything, even to himself, in three days. "I'm hanging in there, Jack," he says, and even though Jack can't see him Will allows himself to smile- just for authenticity. "Do you need anything from me?"

"From you? No," Jack almost laughs. "And I hope I won't need anything from you for a long time." There's a pause before Jack finds something else to say. "Well, it's been brief but I'm glad to hear from you, Will. Hope you feel okay."

Jack hangs up. Will sets the phone down and stares at the wall on the other side of the room, not quite seeing it. Instead the vision that dances in front of his eyes is that of glass-green water, cold and roiling, sliding up and over him and slipping between his fingers. He feels bruised ribs and the shock of salt on open wounds, and he feels the warmth of someone clinging to him- but the ocean is strong and they are both gravely injured, and the current captures Will and whisks him away. He doesn't have enough energy to shout, and he feels fingertips slide through his palm before he is lost to the sea.

Will blinks, shuddering, and Hannibal's face flashes before him.

I lost him. I lost him.

As suddenly as it came, the storm in Will's mind calms, leaving him empty and cold, a hard, shining shell beaten smooth by the tide. He shrugs his shoulders as if he's shedding a coat and stands up, making his way to the dining room.

"I must say," a hoarse, almost-fearful voice says. "Out of all the coping mechanisms you might have chosen, this would be the most appropriate. And the most useless."

Will doesn't look at Bedelia. Not yet. "So," he says, walking down the length of the dining table to where she sits, strapped in at the elbows, ankles and thighs. "You've woken up."

Bedelia's face is impassive, but Will can see the rising panic behind her eyes. "Literally?" she asks, the smallest of hitches in her voice. "Or figuratively?"

Will tests the restraints on the chair- they are all old belts of his- then drags it back from the table with Bedelia still in it. "You can quip at me all you want, Doctor Du Maurier, but it won't change the fact that you just can't seem to disappear fast enough to save yourself."

Bedelia doesn't respond to this at first; in fact, it's unclear whether she's heard him at all. She is staring down the length of the table, trancelike. Will reaches down to one of the straps on her legs.

"Do you still see him?" Her voice is barely a whisper. Will freezes for a moment, and when he undoes the strap across her thighs his movements are much rougher.

"Yes, Bedelia, I still see him," he says, with a dangerous humor in his tone. I lost him. "In fact, I'd say that particular delusion of mine is what brought you here." Bedelia nods, and somehow she doesn't seem surprised.

If he is honest with himself, Will isn't quite sure why he took Bedelia. But the last time he was in Baltimore, there seemed to be a sort of disquiet in his mind that kept him from sleeping or eating the longer he stayed. It was a compulsion that drove him to Bedelia's house, spurred on by the images of frigid green water that filled his senses. But once he was there, there was a moment of decision in which he decided to take her as she packed her bags. He saw Hannibal's silhouette as she backed away from him- and he pursued, against every rational atom in his body. And even now, his explanation for how Bedelia ended up at his dinner table is only a half-truth. He still isn't quite sure.

Of course, that doesn't mean he is going to stop.

Will kneels next to the chair and undoes the strap around her ankle. She kicks out viciously with her free foot, but he catches her around the calf, inches from his face. He stares up at her, and her breathing stops, then quickens, and he lowers her leg back into place almost gently.

"Doctor du Maurier," Will says with mock incredulity. "That was awfully rude of you. And besides," he pats her leg. "I need this." He stands up again, smiling. "Don't move."

For only a moment Bedelia is left alone in the dining room again, trying to regain feeling in her left leg. The chair is too wide for her to reach across and undo her own bindings, and she can't bend over far enough to reach the strap around her other ankle. Unless she finds a way to get Will to free her, she is trapped.

Will returns and Bedelia stops moving. He turns the chair around so that she is facing him.

"I'll untie you after this," he says softly. "You won't be able to run away anyway."

"What will you gain from this?" Bedelia asks, her eyes focused on a point somewhere beyond Will. "What mental cacophony are you silencing with this display?"

Will doesn't answer. Instead he merely procures an exacto-knife and an unlabeled pill bottle. Bedelia's pulse quickens, but she doesn't let him see it. Will kneels down again and grips her skirt, using the blade to open a slit from the hem to her hip. Then he opens the bottle and pours three pills into his palm.

"They gave me these at the hospital," he says. "You should be out for the next four hours." Will looks up at Bedelia, who can no longer control the fear in her expression. "That's all I'll need, anyway." He grips her chin and squeezes, forcing her mouth open despite her struggling. Then he covers her mouth with his other hand, stuffing the pills down her throat. She strains against the belts at her elbows, reaching up and clawing at Will's arms, her fingers scrabbling against the fabric of his shirt in a desperate spasm, but Will disregards her grip. He merely holds her jaw shut with both his hands, watching her choke on and eventually swallow the pills, tears forming in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says suddenly, the words bursting out of him without his consent. He wonders if it's too late to turn her loose- to let her disappear with nothing but a threat and the bitter memories to keep them apart. But he feels a piercing ache in the scar across his cheek, a pain that sears through his teeth and into his skull, and he hears Hannibal's voice in his head. He isn't sure what the voice is saying, but the psychosoma is enough to keep him from undoing the straps and freeing Bedelia.

Will walks away then, knowing that if he stays any longer he won't be able to do what he has to do. He isn't even sure anymore if this will calm his mind- if anything, his visions of cold water and sinking bodies have worsened the longer Bedelia has been in his house. He won't worry about that now, though; he shudders to think of what he'll have to do if this doesn't heal him. He hasn't been able to sleep in days, and if he gains nothing from this- no clarity, no respite, no calm- something will give eventually.

Bedelia wakes four hours later, as Will said, feeling as if she's been asleep for much longer. For a few moments she knows nothing but the fogginess of medically-induced unconsciousness- but then, as her vision sharpens and her mind clears, she feels an angry throbbing at the base of her hip and her breath catches in her throat. She can't bring herself to look at the source of the pain, however. Instead she allows her eyes to travel slightly beyond it to the edge of the chair.

The left side of the chair Bedelia is sitting in has blood soaked down its length, and the skidding trails of red on the floor tell her that she was moved out of the dining room and now has been returned to it. She feels panic at the back of her throat and quashes it to the best of her ability, the ache in her hip worsening with every shallow breath she takes, and she shuts her eyes to steady herself. After a few seconds she hears the sound of glass on wood- someone has placed a tumbler on the table in front of her. There are receding footsteps, and it isn't until they have faded out of the room that she opens her eyes again.

"I saw you were awake and thought you might want something," Bedelia hears Will call from somewhere to her right. "It isn't red wine, but I think it might calm your nerves a bit."

Bedelia glances at the table. In the tumbler is a dark amber liquid- she judges it to be whiskey.

"It's a bit late for niceties, I think," she says softly.

"It's never too late for niceties, Doctor du Maurier." Bedelia jumps; Will has managed to creep up behind her, and now he is undoing the binding on her right arm. "I'll be back in a minute," he says, taking the belt and leaving again.

Bedelia reaches out with a trembling hand and takes the whiskey, slowly bringing it to her lips. It's bitter and strong, and she can tell the bottle's been open for too long, but it takes the edge off of her pain and her fear, and finally she looks down at her hip.

The glass nearly slips from her hand.

The slit in her skirt that Will cut has been pulled back, and Bedelia can see the full extent of the damage he's done. Where her left leg should have been there is a bruised, roughly hewn stump- perhaps two or three inches in length- and clumsy stitching holding the skin together, and she can feel the raw, untreated nerve endings in the muscle and bone underneath.

Somewhere to her right, Bedelia can smell cooking flesh.

It's another hour before Will joins Bedelia again; another agonizing, tense, fearful hour where Bedelia sits alone in the dining room of Will's house with a long-empty glass of whiskey, not daring to move because when she does, she can feel the ghostly impression of the space where her limb once was, and it makes her want to vomit. The sounds and smells of cooking travel from the kitchen, and though she can barely admit it, it smells almost appetizing.

Will enters the dining room once again, this time with a tray in his hand. Bedelia's pulse skyrockets as he approaches the table, but once he places the tray she can see that its contents are nothing but innocuous vegetables, steaming gently and looking slightly overdone. Will says nothing; in fact, he doesn't even look at Bedelia the entire time he is in the room, keeping his eyes on the tray and then on the floor as he swiftly exits again. As he rummages in the kitchen, it occurs to Bedelia that this ceremony is far more for his sake than for hers. This is a sharp contrast to Bedelia's experiences at Hannibal's dinner table; Hannibal was a performer, painting an image on the dinner table for his guests, reveling in the attention as much as the ceremony. And though there is a hint of Hannibal in Will's preparation, a ghostly shadow of him present at the table with Bedelia, she knows that this display is not a performance- it is a desperate return to normalcy. A thought occurs to Bedelia, and she almost laughs at the sheer, bleak morbidity of the notion- she is comfort food.

Will returns with a larger tray, and this time Bedelia knows she can't escape what's going to happen any longer. When what's left of her leg is finally revealed, it's less horrifying than she might have thought- it looks innocent enough, merely a conspicuously large cut of meat browned and brushed in rosemary and salt. But then she feels the now-familiar twinge in her hip, and the panic returns. Will sets about with a carving knife and a serving fork, slicing thin pieces of his creation and placing them on Bedelia's plate. She notices he's having trouble cutting the meat, and if she didn't taste bile rising in the back of her throat, she might have smiled.

"You're using the wrong knife," she murmurs. "That is meant for a fish- it isn't strong enough for... " Bedelia isn't quite sure what term to use at first. "Red meat."

But her comment is lost on Will. He is busy serving himself, and then he sits down a few places from Bedelia and places a napkin on his lap. For the first time he looks up at her, and for a moment his expression is something flickering and unknown- regret, perhaps? Fear? Grief? But then the mask comes down again, and he smiles that small, cracked smile that looks more like a grimace, and Bedelia can only stare, entering a state she can only assume is shock, as he slices a piece of her leg and delicately places it in his mouth.

There is a long, protracted silence then, punctuated only by the scrape of Will’s utensils on his cheap china plate. Somehow it seems more tense, more pregnant with fear and stale anger than the silence of before, as Will continues to eat as if he hasn’t a care in the world- as if Bedelia can’t see the burning behind his eyes. And then he stops for a moment and looks at her, expectant, his fork hovering in the air between his plate and his mouth, and Bedelia knows that there’s no point in pretending anymore. With a hand that is somehow not yet shaking, she picks up her own fork and struggles to cut a piece of meat (her other arm is still bound, and Will is making no movement to undo it for her). When she finally manages to hack out a rough-edged chunk and spear it with the fork, she wastes no time in shoving it into her mouth, trying to swallow as quickly as possible. The look on Will's face, however, stops her cold.

"Appreciate it," he says quietly, staring down at his own plate and stabbing at his meat with his fork in a manner bizarrely reminiscent of a petulant child. Bedelia slows down her chewing as much as she can manage, still making an effort not to notice the taste. She isn't sure she could handle herself if it was palatable. After a few moments she finally swallows the cold lump in her mouth, and Will seems satisfied with that. There is a brief moment where the two of them eat in silence again, only this time with Bedelia participating in the meal. When half of Will's cut is gone Bedelia sets down her fork.

"What happened?" she says, the strength of her own voice surprising her. "On the cliff?" Will freezes, only his eyes moving up from his plate to watch her like a cornered animal. Though his expression is nearly molten, Bedelia manages to hold his gaze.

"Fate," Will mutters, and it sounds final. But he doesn't look away.

"You had to get into the water somehow," Bedelia presses. She feels the dynamic of the room shift subtly, and it gives her some small comfort. "But was it fate that pushed you over the edge?" Will can't tear his eyes from her face. His grip on his knife tightens. Bedelia cocks her head. "Or was it you?"

"That's enough, Doctor du Maurier." There's an undercurrent of electricity that runs through his words, razor-sharp and deadly.

"You couldn't live with yourself, could you?" Bedelia continues ruthlessly as realization overcomes her. She folds her hands in her lap in a cold, empty triumph, feeling as if she's returning to herself. "At least, not without him."

For the first time, something like anguish crosses Will's face, cutting through the carefully controlled anger. "Stop it."

"You tried to end it, didn't you?" Bedelia drives the final nail into the coffin with lethal force. "You couldn't live in the world you'd constructed together, and you tried to destroy yourself along with him."

"Stop," Will hisses. "Please."

Bedelia allows herself the smallest of smiles. "And yet, despite all the lengths you went to in order to meet fate-" She looks Will up and down, her words a heartless knell. "Here you are. Trapped here with the rest of us. You might as well have let the Dragon kill Hannibal and saved yourself the heartache."

Will drops his utensils on the table with a loud clatter, his fingers trembling as he rubs his eyes underneath his glasses as if it'll purge what Bedelia just said from his mind. He wants nothing more than to beat the words out of her- to destroy her so that she can't torment him any longer. The cold ocean is filling his head until he can't see Bedelia anymore, and the worst part is he knows she's right.

I lost him. I lost him. I lost him. I lost him.

I killed him.

Will fumbles for the knife on the table with blind fingers, and Bedelia's breath catches in her throat. The smug sense of power she had managed to grasp so briefly is slipping through her fingers, turning to ice that settles in the pit of her stomach.

The doorbell rings, and both Will and Bedelia jump like they've been shot.

Slowly, as if he's trying to remember how to use his legs, Will stands up and slides the knife into the sleeve of his jacket. Before he turns to leave he glances at Bedelia, and the message couldn't be more clear- speak, and both she and whoever is at the door will die.

"Excuse me," Will whispers, and then he leaves Bedelia alone again.

It takes Will a moment to master himself to the point where he can open the door, and before he does he practices neutral facial expressions like he used to before school as a child, before he had more control over what ran through his mind- mouth relaxed, smile with the eyes, frown with eyebrows only, raise eyebrows, smile without the eyes. When he feels appropriately human again he opens the door.

"Hey." Molly is standing as far away from the door as she can without seeming rude. Will blinks. "Is this a bad time?" A small, sad smile flits across her mouth before Will can fully process it. "I'm sorry, it probably is."

"Hi," Will says quietly, and he can tell that Molly knows something is wrong as soon as she hears his voice. That was something he had once liked about her- she could tell when he was wearing a mask, and she could tell when it was slipping. Now, however, the concern and almost-fear that he sees in her eyes just makes him wish he was brave enough to pull the knife from his sleeve. "Um- no, no it's fine. The house is just- it's a bit of a mess right now, and I'm not sure I could forgive myself if I let anyone see it."

Molly nods slowly. Her smile is understanding and kind. Will can't bring himself to look at her for too long. "I get that," she says. "I just, um- I wanted to see how you were doing." She shifts uncomfortably, licking her lips. "Wally misses you." They both know it's a lie. Will doesn't think Wally could miss him after the total lack of custody battle. He'll never forgive Will for that. Molly bravely tries to move on from the tension that Wally's presence in the conversation is causing. "Are you doing alright?"

Will nods too quickly. "I'm managing." He forces a smile onto his face. "Still get a few aches every now and then- and my chest hurts when it rains."

Molly laughs. "That's just called getting old, I think," she says. She takes a cautious step towards Will, who tenses but allows her to draw nearer. "Listen," she says. "We can still be friends. In fact, I'd like it if we were still friends- if you want." For the first time Will trusts himself enough to look her fully in the eyes. "Just stay with us, okay?"

Will wishes he could tell her she's only a few hours too late. Then Molly reaches for his arm- the one in which he has concealed the knife- and he steps back towards the safety of the house, and the moment is gone. She sighs.

"I'll see you around, Will," she says, and she turns to leave. Will watches her go, and he tells himself it's only to make sure that she won't see anything she shouldn't. When she is halfway down the porch stairs she stops and turns back to him, a strange, quizzical smile on her face.

"Are you cooking something?" she asks. Will nods stiffly, hoping his smile is something close to humorous. Molly shakes her head. "All those years and you never told me you could cook. I feel cheated." Her grin is bright and genuine. Will hates her for it. "Goodbye, Will."

"Goodbye." Will watches her until she's gotten into her car and pulled out of the driveway. Then he slips the knife from his sleeve and goes back inside.

Bedelia is waiting for him when he returns to the dining room, her eyes full of resentment and something that seems like fear. Will smiles at her.

"You didn't say anything," he says. "I'm impressed. I would have never thought of you as the selfless type."

"My sense for the greater good is stronger than you might think, Mister Graham," Bedelia replies as demurely as she can manage. "And besides, I didn't think you would much appreciate having to discover whether or not you are strong enough to kill her too."

Will has no response to this. He merely sits down again, turning the knife over and over again in his hand, deriving a vindictive pleasure from how Bedelia's eyes follow the movements of the blade with rapt attention. He tries not to let her see his indecisiveness- if she knows that there are multiple possible outcomes, she'll do everything in her power to manipulate him towards one where he lets her go. And he isn't sure if his mind is sound enough to keep her influence out.

As they continue eating, Will wonders where he's going to go from here. He could let her go- he could deposit her in her apartment and let her disappear like she wanted to, only this time with a cruel reminder of what exactly she was fleeing from. But that seems like losing somehow, like letting Bedelia go will only cement the power she has over him; Hannibal will never let him go if she escapes. He could stab her right here, right now, with the knife in his hand- but he fears his lack of surgical expertise will result in an incorrect incision, and cleanly slit throats are notoriously difficult to achieve. He can't shoot her, since Jack had all of his guns confiscated out of fear of his mental health. Will smiles to himself; Jack got at least one thing right.

Bedelia watches Will like a hawk- though, she thinks to herself, the metaphor seems a bit more appropriate if it would be reversed- trying in vain to see his intentions beyond his surly facade. He is eating again, with the smallest of grins on his face, and to belie any suspicion Bedelia picks up her fork as well. It’s becoming easier, she realizes, to eat the meat on her plate; with every bite she takes, her stomach seems to turn less. She isn’t quite sure whether to be relieved or terrified. She steals another glance at Will and relaxes a bit when she sees that he seems to be preoccupied with his napkin, wringing it around his hands again and again as if they can’t be quite clean enough. He stands, still with the napkin in his hand. He is staring at the table when he speaks, and it seems like a moment of decision.

“You got what you wanted, didn’t you, Doctor Du Maurier?” Will says, with a rasp in his voice that Bedelia knows to associate with danger. He turns and begins to walk down the length of the table, his eyes on the napkin in his hand. It is a coarse fabric, a yellowed champagne color that hints at having been deeper when the napkin was freshly bought. As Will draws nearer to Bedelia’s end of the table, she feels a sudden and primal urge to get as far away from him as quickly as possible. Scrabbling to find purchase with her remaining foot she pushes herself away from the table, trying not to let the chair tip as she goes. Her hands grip the arms of the chair as if it will help her move away from Will. He notices her feeble attempts to escape and the humorless smile on his face broadens. He is looming over her now, somehow both spectral and monstrous. “You won.” The napkin in Will’s hand seems more like a noose to Bedelia as she realizes its purpose. “You were Bluebeard’s last bride after all.”

Bedelia is as silent in her final moments as she was in the rest of her life- though, Will thinks, that may have been because he strangled her. He was careful not to press too hard so as to not form any discernable handprint -bruising was an all-too-common tell for these kinds of things- and the napkin served as a means of keeping himself from leaving fingerprints. Even after he knows she is dead he lingers over her body for a moment, watching her face, and he gets the strangest feeling- a prickling across the back of his neck, and an old familiar sensation somewhat akin to dread; the feeling that if he turns his head just a few inches he will see Hannibal there, watching and smiling.

Once Will finally tears his eyes away from Bedelia and finds that he is just as alone as ever, he begins to mechanically clear away the plates and food that remain on the table. Out of curiosity he checks his pulse; his heartbeat is steady and slow. No rush of adrenaline or panic, no fear or anger or mad passion. He feels cold and clear, and saner than he’s been for months. Even when the kitchen and dining room are neatly squared away he leaves Bedelia sitting in her chair at the head of the table. The sight of her limp form presiding over the empty table reminds him of an altar.

When all is said and done Will returns to his seat in the living room, though now the room seems comfortable and calm instead of stifling. His gaze travels to the phone on the coffee table, and on a whim he picks it up and dials. When the receiving line is opened he lets Molly speak first.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Will says, tentative at first- he still isn’t quite sure if he sounds the same as he did when she trusted him. But the sigh that he hears over the line eases his tension.

“Will,” she replies. “What’s- what’s going on? Is there something wrong?”

“No, no,” Will says, surprised at how easily and candidly the words are flowing now. “I just- I’ve been an ass, Molly, I’m sorry. I haven’t really been right.”

“Well you’re not wrong,” Molly jokes. Her laughter only sounds slightly nervous.

“Let me make it up to you.” Will has a smile on his face now, a real one. “Come over- Wednesday night.” He glances at the door across from him- the door to the dining room. “I’ll finally cook for you.”


End file.
